


because i could not stop for death

by fishydwarrows



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Angst and Feels, M/M, One Shot, Sad Ending, Supernatural Elements, Talking To Dead People, Writing, also ive got illustrations hell yeah, now this, once a twitter thread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 05:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19222291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: Because I could not stop for Death –He kindly stopped for me –The Carriage held but just Ourselves –And Immortality.We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring –We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –We passed the Setting Sun –Or rather – He passed us –The Dews drew quivering and chill –For only Gossamer, my Gown –My Tippet – only Tulle –We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground –The Roof was scarcely visible –The Cornice – in the Ground –Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses' HeadsWere toward Eternity –-Emily Dickinson





	because i could not stop for death

The move was hard on him. Not in any sense of physical labor for Hank, though a bit older now, still had the muscle and strength to drag some heavier boxes to the back of his car. (He had elected to sell most of his stuff as the house he had bought for nearly half the value of his home was furnished already.) No, it was hard because of the truth in it.  
  
He was leaving Cole behind.

For two years he had stayed in the house and every day his eyes would drift to the door across the hall – old doodles on the door frame stark and bright against white, and a small piece of paper taped just high enough for a small hand to reach which said “my room!! (cole)

Hank didn't believe in ghosts but that: that haunted him.

 

So, he packed up, scrubbed the doodles after hours of staring at the door, carefully folded the paper, did his paperwork, got into his car, and drove away; all the while feeling like a fucking coward. The ride out of Detroit, out of Michigan, sent a wave of discomfort through his gut. His last tether and tie to his son pulled taught by his own actions. Logically, he knew this move was a good choice; he had talked about retirement and mental health and all that other shit with Jeffrey two weeks before he packed up for good. But as he clenched the steering wheel in a vice-like grip he couldn’t help feeling like some sort of failure. New York was a change. A good one? He wasn’t sure.

But Hank had decided to move to a small town upstate, with a good distance from the bustling city.  
  
“It’s a good place to start healing,” his therapist had said.  
  
He told himself that as he drove into town.

 

Hank steps out of his car and breathes. The air is thick with the smell of foliage and the sharp tang of cool air. He surveys his new home. The yard is huge -without a fence – so he lets Sumo out of the car and watches him bound around for a bit. The house itself is tall, wide, and white. He lets himself inside and whistles for Sumo to follow. The house was already furnished, so he hadn’t brought much: just some boxes of clothes, toiletries, books, and pictures of and drawn by Cole. So, he begins his new routine: get out of bed, try not to trip down his obscenely steep stairs, make breakfast, walk Sumo; after that, well…it depends on his mood.

For a while, his days just blur together, sunny day after sunny day after rainy day after rainy day. It’s all the same. He tries to journal, like his therapist told him to; he’s somewhat consistent.

He takes a walk around the town and visits around. And on a dour day he finally visits the small graveyard down the main road. Maybe he was thinking about Cole. Maybe he was thinking about himself; but he goes.

He walks among the old graves. Some are shattered, some pristine. Great big willow trees pepper the lot and the scene is... not desolate, not empty... it just is.

It's peaceful.

 

Hank finds one gravestone with the name almost completely eroded: it just says _C---o -- -_

The rest is unreachable, eroded by time. He touches the stone, and wonders about this person, how they died, their name, their life.

 

Were they ever happy?

 

He goes home after that and tries not to think on it.

 

However, strange things begin to occur: notes around the house, not left by him, pictures drawn by someone, of places he's never seen.

Hank... doesn't know who's doing it. He wouldn't say he's superstitious but he's wary. One night, he attempts to journal again. His pen scratches in the low light. It's a futile attempt of release.

 

“Dear Diary, Dear Journal, Dear God.”

 

He’d tried them all.

 

At this point he wasn’t sure he was writing at all, maybe he was just drawing, just scraping his pen against the paper until it was torn and pulp. Maybe he was that paper, scratched, ripped, torn, useless.

Outside, night birds cried, and crickets chirped. This was supposed to be his reprieve, escape. He never expected the country to be so damn loud. Hank grit s his teeth and tries to focus. Write. Write. All he had to do was write. Something about his feelings, his day, something. It all felt so pointless. Why write to yourself, about yourself? No one sent letters anymore, not really.

Hank flexes his fingers around the pen and sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Maybe he’d write in the morning: journal a dream or something. He began to rise.

Static.

His hand was asleep.

Great.

He flexes his fingers again, but they don't move, his whole arm doesn’t move – not of his accord anyway. Instead, his fingers grasp the pen and hold it lightly. 

“What…” Hank murmurs, watching his hand in horrific fascination. His hand moves, and moves towards the paper, not shaking and now writing.

He writes but it isn’t him.

Dumbstruck, he stares at the looping script.

“Hello.”

 

The journal reads,

 

“My name is Connor.”

 

-

 

It begins like that.

 

-

 

They write to each other- little notes around his house, doodles in the margins of paperwork, dialogues in the journal. Hank begins to research. It's been so long since he's felt any kind of drive to work but Connor intrigues him. Almost scares him. Almost. The more he looks for Connor and his past the more fascinated he becomes with the town. The history is rich and he loves it. Hank had flunked history in high school, but now he goes to the library every other day and pours through almanacs and records collected in the back. 

As he grows to know Connor he feels something he hasn't in a long while. But he knows, knows, there's nothing he can do.

 

He doesn't even know what Connor looks like, sounds like.

 

He's just a phantom: just some handwriting, some notes. Who knows maybe he just has CO2 poisoning.

 

But he falls anyway.

 

He falls in love with a fucking ghost because _of course_ he does.

 

In the end, Hank finds Connor's family history and Connor manifests at last, just once, instead of whispers and half seen shadows he's corporeal, almost real.

 

But then Connor's gone.

 

Hank commissions him a new headstone, but he never appears to see it.

 

Connor doesn't reappear. And Hank writes and he writes and writes but his words are his own. The spindly hand of Connor's he cannot imitate even if he tried. One night he drinks a few too many and takes too many sleeping pills.

 

It wasn't on purpose.

 

He tells himself that before he goes to bed for one last time.

 

-

 

He wakes up somewhere...else. It's bright, headache inducing, and fresh. His nostrils burn with the feeling of cold air. He's awake in his own home. The furniture looks a little older, and there's a feeling of ... something. 

The journal by his bedside table he finds open.

That same familiar handwriting.

"See you soon," it says.

And he hears a creak from downstairs and a child giggling. On the next page of the journal is a marker drawing: it's scribbled and kinda shitty but he knows it just as he knows the hand writing from before.

It says: "Welcome home, dad!"

Hank rushes down the stairs, almost trips but he feels like he's walking on air and maybe he is. He sees a tuft of strawberry blond hair and scoops his son into his arms, shaking with grief and joy.

There's a creak and he at last raises his head from Cole's hair.

 

It's him.

 

It's Connor.

 

He _knows_ it.

 

He looks hesitant and unsure, his worries with the edge of his shirt. Hank smiles, Connor smiles too. It's a small thing but it looks like the moon on a dark night, the brightest thing in the sky.

 

"Hello," he says, and Hank's never been so glad to hear anyone's voice before.

 

"Hey, yourself" Hank says and he can't fight the grin on his face.

 

He can't stop smiling.

 

They embrace, and maybe kiss and Cole says it's gross but he's smiling.

 

And the world fades away but it's alright, Hank is content.

 

He's happy.

 

They leave together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked it!
> 
> my twitter is _[@wow__thenn](https://www.twitter.com/wow__thenn)_
> 
> here also is **[a link to a small animation i made](https://youtu.be/GwMFzbuHXSE)** for this au!


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